


What A Sport Does To You

by linoleum_ice



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Hockey Player!Sergey, Light Angst, Love at First Sight, M/M, Rated T for Trashmouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linoleum_ice/pseuds/linoleum_ice
Summary: He’s attached piles and piles of worries and fears to the heart that beats for his boundless love of driving, and it makes the victories so much sweeter, but it sure doesn’t make the losses any gentler. It complicates things, these worries.But he’s not worried about hockey. Hockey isn’t complicated, he just loves it.
Relationships: Sergey Sirotkin/Lance Stroll
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15
Collections: Motorsport Secret Santa 2019





	What A Sport Does To You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neptunium134](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neptunium134/gifts).

> Recommended listening: ‘Andromeda’—Gorillaz
> 
> Disclaimer: set in the 2017 season when the Russian gp is in April. Lot of hand waving for dates and stuff. I am most definitely exaggerating Lance’s enthusiasm for hockey. 
> 
> Hiya Neptunium! Hope you like this fic. I know it’s basically a hockey fic disguised as an F1 fic, but in my defence, you left it completely up to me and I had an ~Idea~. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

There’s a poster for a hockey game. CSKA at HC Sochi. It’s tonight at seven. 

Lance is standing at the reception to the Sochi Olympic park, warming his fingers by cupping them around his mouth and blowing. He forgot his jacket on top of the Friday practice outfit that he’d neatly folded up for tomorrow, like an idiot. Why did he put them there? He’s Canadian so it’s not freezing but it’s still Russia. 

In the reception building, F1 journalists and personnel trickle through the doors behind him, making their way towards the Thursday presser that Lance didn’t have to attend. A few wish him a good weekend as they pass by, some comment that he’s trying his best for a pay-rookie in a Williams on the decline. They don’t say it like that, but Lance knows. He reads everything they say about him. Especially after DNFing the first three races of his F1 career. Claire and Dad tell him not to, but he can’t help himself. 

The receptionist smiles and clears her throat to get his attention, waving his new paddock pass lanyard at him. 

“Don’t lose it again,” she says with sharp Russian accent. It sounds kinda nice. 

“I won’t. Sorry to bother you,” he responds sheepishly, taking it out of her hand and waving goodbye. He tucks it into the inside pocket of his down jacket, zips up, and buries his hands into the outside pockets, fingers balled up into fists in hopes they might survive the walk back to the hotel. Maybe he should’ve taken up Dad’s offer of a chauffeur. 

The sliding doors open, sending a blast of cool air into his face that pries open his eyes and makes him cough. Lance is halfway down the steps when he sees it again. In smaller font in English under the loud, bold Russian: CSKA at HC Sochi. 7:00 pm. Lance stops. He hasn’t been to a proper hockey game since the season started—Formula 1 season, that is—and he’s getting tired of watching his sister’s periodical snaps of her and her friends with front row seats at the Bell Center. He’s still salty about missing the Habs playoffs.

He looks to the left at the big map of the Olympic park that he walked past earlier. The game is literally a five-minute walk away, the Sochi Autodrom and the Bolshoy Ice Rink are pretty much in the same place (god knows why. It’s not like Formula one is an Olympic sport, hard as he wishes).

Okay, but he can’t, the voice in his head tells him, he didn’t plan for this earlier, he can’t keep splurging Dad’s money on whatever catches his eye in the moment. That’s, like, exactly what everyone wants him to do. So they can yell at him on motorsportfans.com. He’s not going to do it.

He’s _not._

🏁 🏁 🏁

“Sorry, ‘scuse me,” he says to the receptionist, slightly out of breath from taking the steps three at a time. “I, uh, I want to get tickets? Can I do that here?”

🏁 🏁 🏁

HC Sochi fans are a raucous bunch, there’s the cheering, jeering, shrill whistles that fill the stadium and builds and echoes. There’s a brilliant smile on Lance’s face because even though he can’t understand a thing anyone’s shouting and he’s sitting near the back with a shit view and the rink is just a little too big to be familiar, hockey is hockey is hockey and he’s hit with the all-encompassing pang of home. A shiver of excitement runs from his head to his toes and he thinks, isn’t it strange what a sport can do to you? He’s attached piles and piles of worries and fears to the heart that beats for his boundless love of driving, and it makes the victories so much sweeter, but it sure doesn’t make the losses any gentler. It complicates things, these worries. 

But he’s not worried about hockey. Hockey isn’t complicated, he just loves it. 

Lance isn’t sure which team he’s more of a fan of, so he goes with the home crowd at Sochi and tries not to seem enthusiastic when a CSKA player does something cool. Which is fairly often, because CSKA is a really good team, and even he, an NHL junkie, knows this. But the star of the night is undoubtedly HC Sochi’s number 35. Even from his shitty seat at the back, Lance can tell he’s not all buff and muscled up like most of the other players. What he _is_ is freaking _fast_. He’s a flash of lightning in a lightning fast game that’s straining, still, to keep up with him. Lance can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to the 35, every time he’s got the puck, every time he’s on the faceoff circle, even when the puck isn’t live and he’s just standing there. And in those moments, the camera cuts to his face—because it always does—giving Lance a perfect view of the sharp line of his jaw and his reposeful gaze that nonetheless holds a steadfast determination which should be contradictory but _isn’t_. 

Lance’s brain—without his permission—comes to the conclusion that he _needs_ to meet this man. This man. What’s his name again?

The big screen right over the ice is too far away for Lance to make out the writing on the back of 35’s jersey (it’s not like they film closeups of player’s backs) and the Russian commentators are going a mile a minute. Lance strains to listen for anything resembling a name but it all jumbles up into spaghetti in his brain. And people say Québécois is hard to understand. Geez. 

During the first period break, he takes a selfie with his back to the rink and posts it to his public snapchat story. Then another one zoomed-in to the rink and snaps it to his sister with a wink-y face emoji because she has a weird thing about Russian hockey players. She snaps back a photo of her middle finger. 

By the second period break he still hasn’t learnt 35’s name so he hypes himself up for the impossible and asks the middle-aged lady next to him. She, at least, seems infinitely more approachable than the group of young CSKA fans who had been yelling themselves hoarse to his other side. 

“’scuse me,” he says. The lady looks surprised to have been spoken to but turns his way to show she’s listening. “Do you know what 35’s name is?” He’s crossing his fingers she speaks English. Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, but she gives him a sympathetic smile through it. So, no. She doesn’t. 

“Sorry. I just—sorry,” Lance stutters. Never mind. 

The rest of the game is kind of a blur. CSKA score in the last 3 minutes to put the game up one and Sochi aren’t able to tie it before the end, despite 35’s very best efforts. Lance hates the dejected look on his face, not quite frustrated, but jaded. And tired. Although he’ll admit, the sight of 35 sweaty and panting with exertion does things to his insides. It’s been a while since he’s let himself feel this way, with no one looking over his shoulder but the apathetic glance of strangers. Here in the back most seats of a packed stadium, the air dense with a language he doesn’t speak. 

The clock’s all the way to zero now. CSKA wins 4-3. The home crowd is booing as the CSKA bench clears and the players take the ice to form a celebratory-huddle-hug. The Sochi players are leaving, and it seems their fans have much the same idea because the whole stadium is now a scramble to get to the exit before the traffic gets too bad. Taking in the gold and teals of the HC Sochi scarves, toques and jerseys, Lance spots it; one by one, then all at once: the scattering of 35’s jersey on what seems like every third fan. There should be a name on the back of those. Why didn’t he notice before? Was he _that_ distracted? 

In any case, Lance figures as he makes his way towards the exit and gets packed like sardines, he’ll get close enough to a 35 fan’s back to get a read on the words. 

So he does, hobbling along until he spots—yep, there’s one—and it says…

It says Сиро́ ткин. 

Well, s_hit._

🏁 🏁 🏁

It takes Lance until he’s, yet again, standing on the steps of the Sochi Olympic park entrance, waiting for the chauffer, to think: _Oh, wait. _

_ Pssssssssht—He’s so fucking dumb— _

Google!

🏁 🏁 🏁

Sergey Sirotkin is a 22-year-old, Moscow-born hockey player drafted by HC Sochi, and has since been going by the number 35. His short Wikipedia article yields a rather benign photo of Sergey skating after the puck. There is no personal life section. A quick Instagram search shows Sergey isn’t very active and the photos he _does_ have on his page show him smiling impassively at various locations with his arm around various people. None of them, Lance notes uselessly, seem to indicate a girlfriend. 

Lance learns all of this in the 25 or so minutes he has in his motorhome to cool down between the Friday presser and the Practice 1 prep. And _yes_, he knows, he should’ve taken a nap, but being sleep deprived and stalking good-looking people on social media is just part of the normal teenage experience. There’s still a year of that yet and he’s making a valiant effort to cling to his last dredges of normalcy, fruitless as it may be. 

Lance is utterly drained after Practice 3. The car is feeling more and more foreign to him as the engineers tweak and fine-tune every small detail so that maybe, just maybe, he’ll drag it past the chequered flag in one piece. After a trip round the press pen, one of the Williams media people cheerily gives him a pat on the back and tells him congratulations, he’s done for the day. 

“That eager to get rid of me, eh?” He says, grinning halfway, in the way that doesn’t push up the baby fat in his cheeks. 

She, Stefani, if he remembers correctly, rolls her eyes and gives him another pat that’s more of a nudge towards the paddock exit. 

“Scram, kid,” she says, amused. 

He gets stopped for a couple photos and signing, it’s inevitable, people buy paddock passes. On one hand, thank god it’s just Friday. But on the other, Lance is happy to comply, there’s a special pleasure in seeing the fans, the people as excited about his racing as he is. 

“Hi, Lance Stroll,” says the latest to join the semi-circle of three that had formed around him. Lance is smiling into an iPhone camera with a trio of fans who wanted a selfie. He doesn’t see the newcomer, but the Russian accent is obvious from the guttural ‘H’ to the lightly rolled ‘r’. 

“Sorry, gimme a sec,” he says, scribbling down his signature on a track map. 

He thanks the trio for coming and turns his attention to the new guy. The first thing Lance sees is the eyes, because that’s what they tell you to look at first. They’re not quite blue and not quite green; a grey that looks like a muted version of another colour. And then, of course, he realises it’s Sergey Sirotkin. 

“Can I have a picture?” Sergey asks, while Lance’s brain is still catching up. Then Sergey is looking away and frowning. “My English is not so good, sorry. Can I—take a picture? With you? I like you. Your driving. Williams is my favourite team.” Sergey says, like he needs to explain himself. 

“Yes! Yeah, for sure!” Oh god. _Focus_, Lance. 

Smile and click and the photo is done, and Lance’s shoulder feels weird where it was pressed against Sergey’s. Sergey thanks him with a small smile that isn’t by any means dazzling, but leaves Lance feeling like jelly regardless. Lance says _for sure, no problem_ and watches him turn to walk away. 

Lance does not want him to walk away. 

Say something. What? Something!

“I, uh…” Lance says. Sergey looks back at him expectedly. Lance thinks he’s not imagining the hope in his eyes. 

“I watched your game last night. Nice goal. Really sorry you lost.”

And like a dam breaking, Sergey smiles a full, toothy smile, unrestrained and amazed. It’s ridiculously picturesque, what with the dying sunlight catching his sandy hair in a halo around his face. 

He really is beautiful. 

“Why you sorry? It’s my problem, not yours.” Sergey teases. If he’s trying to get Lance to blush, it might be working. 

Then Sergey’s expression sobers up a little and he gives a shrug. 

“Always sucks to lose in Sochi. And to my home team.” He says, shrugs again, as if to say _what can you do about it._ “You watch KHL? Or you just in the area?” Sergey says, changing the subject. Still an open wound, Lance reckons. 

“In the area. Thought I might treat myself before the race,” Lance says. He’s pretty sure Sergey is trying to get him embarrassed at not being an actual fan, but while Lance is easy to blush, he won’t be pushed around by ribbing, harmless or not. 

“So you just turn up to some random game? I know who you are, Lance Stroll, but do you even know my name?” It sounds like a challenge, accusatory even, he’s being very forward, that’s for sure. It’s then that Lance recognises Sergey’s kind of a dick. 

Oh hell. He’s into it.

“I don’t know, Sergey, you tell me.” Lance says, jutting out his chin minutely.  “Is Williams really your favourite, or were you just saying that so I won’t be offended.” 

Sergey considers him, seizes him up with a blink-and-you’ll-miss it flick of his gaze, then promptly ignores Lance’s question.

“Have you seen much Sochi? Explore?” asks Sergey. 

“No,” says Lance. Not much time in a race weekend. Sergey would understand, being who he is. 

“I’ll tell you over dinner. Proper Russian food. No point in travelling if you don’t try something new, yes?” Sergey’s grin is almost cocky, but he’s shifting his weight from one foot to another and it’s at this point Lance understands he’s being asked out. He’s almost certain Sergey knows this too. Whatever he’s feeling—and he doesn’t quite trust himself to articulate it right now—tightens its hold in his chest. This has never happened before. How the hell—He’s not even that good looking! But now he has this pretty hockey player with nice arms inviting him out to dinner. 

“Oh yeah? You know a place?” Lance asks through the smile so wide it threatens to split his face in half. 

Sergey holds his hand out expectantly and nods at the sharpie Lance has been holding all this time. When he acquires it, he writes something into the back of his track map. 

“Here,” he holds it out for Lance, the sharpie and the track map. “The address. Give to your taxi driver. And text me if you’re late. 7 okay for you?”

“Yeah,” says Lance. _It’s a date_.

🏁 🏁 🏁

Sergey opens his cab door for him as well as the restaurant door, and patiently translates every item on the menu from Russian. He might be kind of a dick, but Lance is pleased to learn that he’s also a gentleman. He feels those two things should be mutually exclusive, but Sergey has done nothing but subvert his expectations. 

They’re seated in a quiet, secluded corner of the restaurant in question. Lance figures Sergey frequents this place as none of the staff seem fazed by his fame. Although it _is _a little strange, Lance is used to turning heads—he’s a Formula 1 driver, after all—but its plainly clear that he’s isn’t the main attraction this time. The other patrons seem far more interested in not-so-discretely taking pictures of their local hockey star than some Canadian guy. 

Sergey doesn’t pay attention to the other patrons. Lance knows this because Sergey is only paying attention to him. 

So it’s only logical that Lance is blushing like mad; whenever he feels the weight of Sergey’s grey-green eyes, whenever Sergey teases his pickiness at new food, whenever the talking strays to F1 and Sergey sends a compliment his way. It’s exhilarating, extremely flattering. Kind of addicting. 

“My papa’s favourite team is Williams,” Sergey says, finally addressing his excuse for the outing that Lance had completely forgotten about. 

“Grew up cheering for them, did you,” says Lance, poking his dumplings with the _appropriate _amount of weariness at the unknown object he’s about to ingest. “Got a favourite driver?”

“Ah, probably Schumacher,” Sergey admits sheepishly. Lance isn’t sure if that’s because it’s not a Williams driver, or because _everyone’s_ favourite is Schumacher.

“He’s quite the talent,” Lance concedes, and pauses to chew. And think. “So, um, okay. Stop me if this is, like, a racist thing to ask, but where did you learn English? I mean, your English pretty fluent. That’s why I ask.”

Sergey thinks about it. His expression goes neutral and he really thinks about it, puts down his cutlery and everything. Then he evidently makes a decision because he crosses his arms on the table and leans forward.

“Can I tell you something?” He asks quietly. 

Lance nods. 

“I want to play NHL,” he says levelly. “I’m not supposed to want to play NHL, because KHL is home. Home has to be the best. But. NHL is…” he trails off. 

Lance nods. It’s better.

“Also,” he continues. “I think we’re—what’s…what’s the word? On the same book?”

“Page.” Lance corrects.

“_Da_, yes, thank you. On the same page. I’m…not attracted to girls. You know this.”

The admission…oddly doesn’t change anything in Lance. Yes, he knows this. 

Lance nods. 

“That’s allowed in America.”

“And Canada.” Lance interjects.

“And Canada.” Sergey confirms. “But I can be in jail in Russia.”

Lance nods, slowly. And puts down his cutlery as well.

“But, if you get on a plane, fly out to North America and sign a contract once your current one expires, they can’t stop you, right?” says Lance.

This elicits a heavy sigh from Sergey.

“I think that maybe I’m not good enough.”

Lance opens his mouth to protest, but he’s stopped by Sergey shaking his head. 

“I think I seem big in Sochi, more because I’m new, exciting, than because I’m very very good. There are older guys in Sochi that are better than me, no question. And in the KHL? Sochi is tiny. Okay, I don’t say this because I’m lazy. I—I work hard. I’ve never worked so hard for anything. But I think sometimes, hard work is not enough. And I’m not talented enough.”

Lance understands him. Good _god_ does Lance understand him. He knows exactly where Sergey is, because he’s right there with him. And he knows what he needs. 

“Sergey, you’re incredible. Don’t look at me like that, you are. Look, I’m not a hockey expert by any means, but I’m a hockey fan. And I know when there are people out there getting excited about you, your play, your speed, your slapshot, whatever—they know you’ve got something.”

Lance crosses his arms as well to mirror Sergey. 

“I think you owe it to yourself to at least throw your hat into the ring,” Lance says with an air of solemn finality. 

Sergey looks confused and a little sheepish.

“You don’t know what that means,” Lance says, mostly to himself, covering half his face with his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” says Sergey, even though he’s holding in a laugh. “It sounded very dramatic.”

And because Lance is hopeless like that, it takes absolutely nothing for him to let out a fit of laughs. 

🏁 🏁 🏁

“I enjoyed this. A lot.” Lance says as the two stand in front of Sergey’s car at the empty, darkened car park. The wind is picking up and his words are misting up in the cold air. Sergey called him a taxi on this app he’s got and he refuses to leave until he sees Lance off. 

“Me too,” says Sergey. 

They’re standing face to face, maybe three-quarters of an arm’s length away and Sergey has his back to his car. 

Lance looks at the space between them

“Listen…Sergey, I’m not going to see you again for a long time. This…thing we got going definitely isn’t serious. So it’s completely understandable if you say no, I don’t expect anything from you, simply spending time with you has been a blast for me.”

Lance looks down, looks away, then looks back to Sergey. 

“But I’d like to kiss you. If that’s okay.”

Sergey smiles, like that first time, the revelation smile, as Lance is calling it. 

“Please.” Is all he says, and it’s all the confirmation Lance needs to bridge the gap, hands grabbing on to the lapels of Sergey’s jacket, closing his eyes and meeting Sergey’s lips in the middle. At this point, his thinking-brain sort of shuts down and he lets his doing-brain take over. His hands never stray, and neither do Sergey’s, but it feels like forever. 

But of course, it isn’t forever, and the moment they hear the rumble of the arriving taxi, they spring apart. Lance checks the number plate as it rolls in and _yep, that’s the one_, so he starts walking backwards, not able to turn his back to Sergey just yet. 

“Bye! Goodbye, Sergey!” Lance calls and waves. 

“Lance, we just fucking kissed!” Sergey calls back. “You have to call me Seryozha!”

Lance laughs—bright, but bittersweet.

“I’ll see you again, Seryozha!” he calls as he’s opens the cab door, and yelling one last _bye_ before he dips in and shuts the door. Serg—Seryozha’s still standing there as they pull away, waving. 

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on tumblr! @stop-beeing-them


End file.
